Holidays Can Be Murder: A Charlie Parker Christmas Mystery (2 page)

Upstairs, I peeked through Ron’s doorway and gave a little wave when I noticed he was already on the phone. He swears ninety percent of an investigator’s work is done on the telephone and I’m beginning to believe it. I rarely see him without it pasted to his ear. In my own office across the hall, a stack of new mail awaited, which I quickly sorted by categories: bills to pay, letters to write, and circular file.

I was intent on entering expenses into the computer when I became aware of Ron standing in my doorway.

“Ready?” he asked.

“For what?”

“Sally said you’d take me downtown to get my car from the lube place. Hello? Remember?”

“Jeez, is it noon already?” I glanced at my watch and saw that it was.

“Time flies when you’re having fun?”

I growled.

Rusty opted to stay at the office with Sally, who was microwaving a cup of hot chocolate. Thirty minutes later, I returned with a bag from McDonald’s and the dog was more than happy to turn his affection back toward me. I was still intent on my fries when Sally came through, announcing that she was done for the day and going home to relieve her husband, Ross, of babysitting duties. I spent a couple of hours sending dunning notices to delinquent accounts and answering miscellaneous correspondence.

When I arrived back home, Drake had made little progress on the luminarias. He was slipping his jacket on as I took mine off.

“Got a call for a charter photo job,” he said, brushing my lips with a quick kiss. “Been on the phone with this guy half the afternoon, planning the logistics of the thing. Wants to catch the sunset on the Sandias. I told him the light was terrible today, with this gray sky, but he wants to give it a try. Guess I’ll buzz him around the west side for an hour or so. If he doesn’t get decent pictures, the forecast is better for tomorrow and we’ll try it again.”

“Flight time?”

“No more than an hour. I’ll call as I’m taking off.”

The FAA requires a commercial aircraft to file a flight plan or provide someone within the company to monitor each flight. In Drake’s business, that was me. I gave him a quick kiss and watched him drive away.

A faint tapping at the back door drew my attention.

“Got your groceries,” Elsa said, coming into the kitchen. “The pork tenderloin looked wonderful. It’s gonna make yours the winning stew.”

I smiled and thanked her. Bless her heart, she has a lot more faith in my cooking abilities than I do. I heated a kettle and made us each a cup of tea. Drake called to give his takeoff time, which I jotted down, then Elsa and I settled back with our tea and several cookbooks to choose our recipes for the neighborhood cookie swap.

“Well, I’m doing my spritz,” Elsa said, before we’d delved very far into the books. “They go over pretty good every year, especially the ones I decorate with those little candies.”

“They’re fabulous,” I agreed. “Nothing like a cookie with tons of butter in it to get my loyalty.”

I flipped aimlessly through the cookbook. “You know, I think I’ll make biscochitos this year. They’re Christmasy, and not nearly as much work as some of the frosted, decorated, fancy things other people bring.”

“Oh, yes,” she agreed enthusiastically, “those are wonderful. Do them.”

I’d already filled her in on all the projects I had to accomplish within the week, and the fact that my mother-in-law would be here, now only three days away. We finished our tea and Elsa headed back to her house through the break in the hedge that’s been there since I was a little girl. I used to duck out the kitchen door and try to get through the hedge before Mother could catch me and make me come back. Then I’d sit in Elsa’s kitchen and be fed cookies and milk. When my parents died in a plane crash, Elsa Higgins took me into her home and kept me out of trouble until I could move back into the family home and be on my own. Anyone who’ll take in a teenager for a couple of years should probably have “Saint” stenciled above her doorway.

I flipped aimlessly through the cookbooks for a few more minutes but didn’t change my mind about my choice. Drake phoned to say he’d landed and I noticed that the gray day was dying, becoming a gray twilight.

The next two days flew by, filled with gift wrapping, freshening the guest room, and setting up the tree in the living room. By Friday morning, I’d made about all the preparations I could for a mother-in-law visit. I gathered my ingredients for green chile stew and headed downtown to the Convention Center and the cookoff. The plan was that Catherine would arrive about mid-afternoon and Drake would bring her downtown to sample the results.

I was well into dipping out my four hundredth ladle of stew into someone’s Styrofoam bowl when I glanced up to see my husband grinning at me. Next to him, Catherine stood regal as ever, her sleek page perfect and her makeup freshly retouched. I pictured how I must look--wilted hair, sweaty upper lip, and tomato stains on my white apron. Makeup isn’t something I do much with anyway—a touch of lipstick and maybe mascara on a good day—so I knew that department was lacking.

Catherine waited until my customers walked away, then she came over to gather me into a hug.

“Charlie, you look great!” she greeted.

My expression must have shown my skepticism.

“Well, okay, not the
best
, but really, dear, I’m so glad to see you.”

I took the compliment as graciously as possible.

“Can we have a taste?” Drake said, eyeing the nearly-empty pot.

“Did you buy a ticket? Gotta have your official tasting bowl, you know.”

He produced two of the generic Styrofoam bowls and I gave them each a dipper full. He rolled his eyes as he tasted; my green chile stew is his favorite dish.

“Charlie, this is wonderful,” Catherine exclaimed. “Really, really good. I vote for it to be the winner.”

I had to chuckle. “You haven’t tried any of the others yet,” I said.

“That’s okay—I still vote for yours.”

I smiled at her. “Doesn’t look like there’s going to be any left to take home. Otherwise, we could have it for dinner.”

“Looks like we’ll just have to go to Pedro’s,” Drake said, shrugging his shoulders. Like eating out at our favorite little spot was a big sacrifice.

I glanced at my watch. “Cookoff’s over in another fifteen minutes,” I told them. “If you want to check out the other booths before everything’s gone, go ahead.”

“I think I’ll save space for Pedro’s,” Drake said. “Need help carrying anything out to the car?”

I gathered most of the utensils and ingredients I hadn’t used and let him carry them away. Catherine wandered down the long row of booths while I finished wiping up a few stray spills. The crowd had thinned considerably.

“Looks like they raised quite a lot for the homeless,” Catherine said, coming back.

“Good. I’m glad it helped. This event has become quite a tradition. Gets bigger every year.”

Drake came back and carried the remaining gear outside and I folded my apron. Fifteen minutes later we were parking both vehicles in front of Pedro’s tiny establishment near Old Town. The little parking lot only contained three other vehicles, making it nearly full.

Inside, three of the six tables were occupied, one by Mannie, a grizzled old man who eats chile hotter than most people can stand. He raised his gray-speckled chin in greeting as we took our usual table in the corner.

Concha, Pedro’s other half, was in the process of setting heaping plates of tacos on one table. “Margaritas?” she asked as we passed.

“Three,” Drake said.

Pedro stood behind the bar, whirring the cool green drinks in his blender. Concha wiped her hands on her apron and picked up the glasses. Balancing a small cocktail tray, she threaded her way toward our table. Drake introduced his mother and the Spanish woman gave Catherine a warm smile.

“I thought you were getting a waitress,” I asked her as she set my drink down.

She made a sound that came out like “Pah!” and pulled out her order pad. “Kids. Can’t get any of them to do any work. Easier to do it myself.”

I noticed that Pedro had headed back to the kitchen while she wrote down our order. Easy enough, since Drake and I usually have the same thing—chicken enchiladas with sour cream. Green. Catherine followed suit.

“I’d forgotten how you get a choice of red or green chile here in New Mexico,” Catherine said after Concha had left. “Most places any more make up these weird concoctions called sauce, and you really don’t know what kind of chile is in it.”

I could tell I was going to get along just fine with her.

3

Sunday morning dawned clear and cold. Frost was thick on the grass and trees, but the hoped-for snowfall from a few days ago seemed to have vanished. Albuquerque rarely gets snow for Christmas—only an inch or two when we do--and it was looking like this year would be no exception.

“Is there more cinnamon, Charlie?” Catherine was helping me bake the biscochitos and we were running out of the cinnamon-sugar coating we’d mixed up earlier.

“Check that upper cabinet,” I told her. “I’m pretty sure we’re not out.”

So far the co-baking project was going along fine. We had two good-sized batches of the traditional Mexican cookies almost done. Catherine and I worked well together in the kitchen, with Rusty and Kinsey supervising as only dogs can. The big red Lab and the little cocker both sat with ears perked and deep brown eyes staring winsomely at our every move.

The cookie swap is our neighborhood’s way of getting together socially for an afternoon and for everyone to take home a variety of holiday cookies without having to bake for days on end. Later this afternoon we’d all meet at the Country Club and have a couple of glasses of sinfully rich eggnog and indulge in far too many calories. I couldn’t wait.

Drake eased into the kitchen and slipped one star-shaped cookie from the cooling rack.

“Uh-uh,” I scolded. “You’re supposed to come to the party to get some.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he complained. “You’re going to bring home a box full anyway. Why can’t I just have some now?”

I shot him a look.

“Besides, I probably won’t be able to go. That photographer who got lousy gray pictures the other day wants to try again this afternoon now that the sky’s cleared. Looks like I may have to be out with him most of the afternoon.” He tried his best to look underfed, so I gave him another cookie and was rewarded with his gorgeous smile and a kiss.

“By the way,” he said, “did you notice some guy cruising the street in a dark blue car awhile ago? Thought he might be casing the place, so I took down his license number.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper.

The phone rang, interrupting.

“Charlie? It’s Judy. Judy Garfield. Next door.”

I wondered if she’d continue to identify herself so completely every single time she called. I stuck Drake’s note to the refrigerator with a daisy-shaped magnet.

“The cookie swap this afternoon? Is it okay to bring a guest?” Judy asked.

“Sure. Catherine’s coming with me. Drake may not be able to make it.”

I could hear her taking a deep breath on the other end. “Well, Wilbur’s mother dropped in, and we’d like to bring her if that’s all right.”

“Really? You hadn’t said anything about having company for the holidays. That’s nice she could make it.” I brushed sugar off my hands. “I’m sure it’s no problem to bring her along. We’ll see you there—about four?”

“See you then.” Her voice sounded tight, like she was talking with her teeth clenched.

The Country Club’s dining room was dressed in all its holiday finery when we arrived. Twin spruce trees at each end of the room were laden with bows, pinecones, and bunches of sugared fruit. Red and gold satin ribbons draped the cookie tables, set up along three walls. Already, platters of cookies filled two of the long tables, beckoning with their loads of butter and sugar. I set my plates down and turned to see who was already here.

Elsa stood across the room, a dainty basket hanging from her arm, her puff of white hair freshly styled. She seemed intent on a plate of some kind of cookie with bright red maraschino cherries in the centers.

“Let’s go say hello,” I invited Catherine.

“Oh, that’s your neighbor, isn’t it? The one who’s also your grandmother.”

“Almost—that’s right.”

Elsa remembered Catherine immediately. “And where’s that husband of yours?” she asked me.

“Got a flight and couldn’t make it. He’ll consume his share of the cookies later, I’m sure.”

A commotion at the entry grabbed our attention.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” a woman was saying. Her voice came through the room clearly, as though amplified. “Judy, here let me get that.”

I looked beyond her to see Judy Garfield, looking mortified, standing just inside the vestibule.

“Judy! Did you hear me? I said I’ll take that for you.”

Unfortunately, everyone in the room heard her and all eyes were watching the little scene play out. Judy and Wilbur each carried a heavy-looking platter covered with plastic wrap and the woman was attempting to take a plate in each hand, something that clearly was not a good idea. Wilbur said something quietly into her ear and she finally settled for carrying only one of the platters.

She tottered into the dining room on red four-inch heels. The shoes were complimented by a strapless red satin dress, formfitted to the waist then blossoming out in a tulip shaped skirt. Her short-short black hair was pulled back on the right side and held in place by a monster of a red poinsettia. The whole effect was a bit much for a neighborhood gathering at four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon.

I was beginning to figure out why Judy’s voice had sounded so tense this morning.